


call you out by your favorite name

by la_victorienne



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-11-04
Updated: 2010-11-04
Packaged: 2018-10-15 10:43:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 952
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10554994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/la_victorienne/pseuds/la_victorienne
Summary: In which there is absolutely nothing but porn.





	

He always comes, when she calls.

It doesn't matter where they are or what he's doing—he always drops it when she calls, when she says his name in that breathless voice and tells him what she's wearing—if anything at all.

He's made a point to stay close to Paris, recently.

His phone rings. "Eames," she sighs.

"Already at the door, darling," he purrs, looking up at the balcony of her apartment. She leans out, her curls in tangles and the strap of her tank top slipping down her shoulder, and he grins into the phone.

She's scowling. "You know me too well."

"Let me up, and I'll apologize."

He won't, of course. He'll be far too busy for that.

The door buzzes. He climbs the stairs two at a time until he hits the fourth floor. She makes him feel ten years younger, chasing Cambridge girls, giving chase in return. He's not even breathing heavily when she meets him at the door, leaping into his arms and sealing her mouth to his with no preamble whatsoever. He barely remembers to kick the door closed.

"Say you're sorry," she tells him roughly. She's got her legs around his waist and her fingers in his hair, and he squeezes his handful of arse as the side of his mouth quirks.

"But I'm not sorry."

She tugs at his hair, sharply. "Say it."

He squeezes again in retaliation. "Won't," he says, a wicked glint in his eye, and they're kissing again.

And yeah, he knows it's his fault she's like this, his fault she's casual and callous, his fault she never wants to give anything but this. His fault, that she grew up. Better him than anyone else, though, better than traditional Arthur or shuttered-off Cobb or possessive Saito. They would have caged her. They would have tried to tame her. They wouldn't have seen the things he saw, the edges of her desires, the shape of her wanting, her need to be free. They'd never have known her the way he does.

Sometimes, she's the only thing he knows.

"Ariadne," he growls into her mouth, the sound warm instead of warning. She shifts in his arms, tugs his head back, bites into the curve of his jaw. "Bed," he manages hoarsely, and her cheek bobs against his own.

And yeah, it's his fault she's like this. And no, he can't even begin to care.

And he's got a hand on her neck and her mouth is on his and he doesn't need to look to know how to get to her room, just steps through the door and tosses her onto the bed and pulls his shirt over his head.

She's lying back, up on her elbows, watching. He puts on a show for her, smiling cheekily, teasing. And she watches, just watches, indulges him the humor and waits for him to be finished, to climb up with her, to finish what he started.

When he does, finally, she flips him.

He should be used to it, used to how easily she turns him over, how willing he is to go. His hands can span the breadth of her waist, nearly—he could tear her in two, if he wanted. But he won't, and she knows it, and good god, that shouldn't be as hot as it is but it's got him arching into her, seeking the friction, looking for the heat between her thighs.

He tears her underwear. It's a good reminder.

To her credit, all she does is laugh, and pull her tank top over her head.

"Clever girl," he says.

"I catch on quick," she sighs, and then she's got a condom from nowhere and she's sliding on and merciful Christ, it never stops surprising him, how it feels inside her.

She makes a little sound, deep in the back of her throat, and he splays a hand flat on her back, pushing her down so he can catch her mouth, swallow her need. She rocks, and he lifts. They find the rhythm she's been looking for, the reason she called him in the first place, the escape she's been seeking. He knows that's why he's here. He knows that's why she chose him, instead of traditional Arthur or shuttered-off Cobb or possessive Saito. Because he's just Eames, not a lover, not a friend. He knows this. He does.

He thinks he might love her, all the same.

As if she can taste it, she pulls back from the kiss. He distracts himself with her body, palms the heft of her breasts, grips her hipbone, strokes the back of her thigh. She just throws her head back, gives in to it all, and he follows her abandon to the edge and beyond.

There—just there. He angles up; she gasps his name. It's the sound that sends him tipping, spiraling out into nothing, her body spasming around him. He's spun out and spinning, enveloped, engulfed, and he thinks he might hear himself crying out for her, but there's no way to be sure.

She's curled into him, when he regains himself. He closes his eyes, savors the moment, waiting for her to shift away, signal the end of the evening. She curls in closer, instead, if that's possible—tucking her knee between his, slotting her head beneath his chin.

"Ariadne?"

"Shh," she replies. "Don't ruin it."

And, all right, fair enough. He does as she says, putting it out of his mind for the time being. Her bed is warm, her skin warmer, and he feels, for a moment, a fleeting sensation of joy.

This is why. This is why he comes. And this, this is why she calls.


End file.
